


Saturday Night Special

by Fiercelynormal



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiercelynormal/pseuds/Fiercelynormal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt of: Jensen is in a relationship with an uptight and boring guy, who thinks he's the best catch someone can have. But he never does anything exciting, neither in the bedroom nor out of the bedroom. </p><p>When Jensen and his boyfriend find themselves in a hostage situation, Jensen's boyfriend is a whimpering mess, trying to hide behind Jensen. Jensen just rolls his eyes while being provocative and not shutting up, insulting the bank robbers. Jensen is more than glad that finally something exciting is happening in his life.</p><p>And Jared, one of the bank robbers? Finds it all very amusing and is more than willing to show Jensen how much excitement someone can really have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Night Special

“Mommy, I don’t want to die!” The sobbing coming from beside Jensen on the couch is really starting to get on his nerves. It’s cowardly, it’s immature, and it’s really fucking embarrassing. For Jensen, that is. Because the guy doing all the crying is his boyfriend, Ted. Jensen rolls his eyes, and he’s almost certain he sees an amused quirk on the lips of the tall guy currently holding a gun on them, through the mouth opening of the black knit balaclava he’s wearing. 

“Real prize you got there, Ackles” the gunman says. 

“Yeah, well, at least he’s not stupid enough to try to rob the mafia,” Jensen rakes his eyes pointedly over the gunman standing in front of them, gun trained steadily on Jensen.

“Oh, god, Jensen, don’t talk back to him, he’ll kill you!” whimpers Ted. 

“He’s not going to kill me, for Christ’s sake,” Jensen says calmly, never taking his eyes off the gunman.

“How do you know?” sniffs Ted. 

“Because he’s the only one here who knows the fucking passwords, douchewad!” The last is shouted amiably across the room by the second gunman who was sitting at Jensen’s pristinely organized desk, tapping away competently at the keyboard of Jensen’s laptop.

Ted still looks rattled, but still seems to calm down considerably after that reassurance. Jensen doesn’t bother to point out that, while they need Jensen for the passwords, the same doesn’t apply to Ted. No sense setting him off again. But god, this is getting boring. Not unlike every other evening he’s spent with Ted, if Jensen is to be quite honest with himself.

To entertain himself, he lets his gaze wander over the gunman standing in front of him. Clad head to toe in black, including the leather gloves on his hands, the man is tall and lean, with a nearly impossible shoulder-to-waist ratio and long, lanky legs that go on for miles. He moves gracefully, and Jensen idly wonders what he looks like naked. He’s got a bit of an edge to him, a restrained violence, and it’s...well, it’s exciting. And lord knows Jensen could use some excitement in his life.

Jensen’s eyes finally come to rest on the gunman’s face, only to find the man watching him steadily. Jensen feels a flush start to rise on his face but he doesn’t look away. So what if the guy caught him looking? Not like he’s in any position to be judgmental. 

Jensen and Ted had just settled in for another quiet Saturday evening at home, watching a Netflix documentary on the couch when the two gunmen had burst in through the window off the fire escape. Jensen knew it was stupid to leave it open but Ted had insisted. So now there are two masked strangers in Jensen’s living room, expecting him to turn over the passwords to his boss’ bank accounts. The boss who, unbeknownst to Jensen until tonight, just happens to be in charge of laundering money for the local mafia. 

Basically Jensen is fucked if he does, fucked if he doesn’t. And maybe a little fucked _up_ , too, because looking into this gunman’s multi-hued, slightly slanted eyes, framed by the black knit of the balaclava, Jensen finds he’s more turned on than scared. And when he licks his lips and the man’s eyes track the movement faithfully, he knews he isn’t the only one.

“Okay, I’m in,” crows the other gunman from his post at Jensen’s desk. “Now for the accounts and passwords.”

Abruptly the man motions toward Jensen with the gun. 

“Over here,” he says. “I can’t hear think over that one’s crying.” He motions toward Ted with a wave of his hand. Ted has, in fact settled down to the occasional sniffle, but he squeaks a bit in fear at the motion. The man walks over to stand behind the island of the kitchen counter, removing one of the leather gloves he’s wearing and pulling a piece of paper out of the pocket of his black jeans as he goes. Jensen follows, standing beside the gunman and peering down at the paper as the man smooths it open on the counter. It’s a list of names and account numbers. 

“I’m gonna read those numbers out, and my _associate_ is going to enter the accounts. You are going to give us each password as we go. If you try to screw us over in any way,” his voice drops threateningly and he raises the gun up to trail the muzzle slowly down Jensen’s cheek, catching the swell of his bottom lip as he passes, “well. It’d be a shame to mess this face up.” 

Now Jensen knows without a doubt that he is fucked up, because rather than scare him, the slide of the slick metal of the gun barrel over his stubbled jaw has him harder than he can ever remember being in his life. He presses his hips into the hard countertop, both to provide much-needed pressure and to hide his erection from the man standing beside him. 

“Ok, first number,” the man at Jensen’s desk prompts. The one standing beside Jensen reads off the account number carefully, and the other guy enters it in. When it’s time for the password, Jensen doesn’t hesitate to provide it. It isn’t _his_ money, after all. He doesn’t even like the job; despite the fact that he now knows he works indirectly for the mafia, it’s a hell of a boring job.

“Good boy,” the gunman standing beside Jensen croons. His bare hand traces down Jensen’s back, leaving a shiver in its wake. The hand keeps going, tracing the seam of Jensen’s khakis and stopping only when he reaches the barrier of Jensen’s legs. He pauses, as if gauging Jensen’s reaction, waiting for him to squawk or jerk away, but Jensen silently moves his legs apart, granting unspoken access. The man beside him lets out a quiet hum of approval that reaches no farther than Jensen’s ears. 

Jensen looks over at Ted, sitting forlornly on the couch. He’s gazing off into space, not fixed on any particular thing. The other gunman is busy gleefully stealing money from Jensen’s clients. Jensen know only their upper bodies were visible from behind the counter. He pushes his ass back into the hand touching him, and then feels foolishly disappointed when that hand disappears. 

Except it comes back. This time sliding under the thankfully loose waistband of Jensen’s khakis, pushing down slowly, the middle finger tracing the seam between Jensen’s buttocks until it pauses directly over Jensen’s tightly furled hole. There it waits, as if asking permission. Jensen braces his hands on the countertop and leans forward slightly in response. Permission granted.

He moves slowly, the gunman, penetrating Jensen millimeter by millimeter. With no lube to smooth his way the entrance is tight; it hurts, but the pain is part of the excitement, too. Jensen circles his hips a little, keeping his upper body as still as he can so as not to attract Ted’s attention, helping to guide that long, slender finger inside. 

“Next password!” shouts the other gunman impatiently, and Jensen is able to focus long enough to rattle off the required sequence. Just as he finishes, the finger inside him is removed, and replaced by two. This time the burn of dry friction is more intense and he inhales sharply, smiling a weak but reassuring smile at Ted when his boyfriend’s gaze flies to his. 

Jensen and the gunman don’t move, just stand there with Jensen impaled on the gunman’s fingers for a long minute until Ted’s attention is taken over by the other guy’s triumphant crowing when the next account is hit. Then it’s on. The gunman slowly pulls his fingers back and pushes them in, setting a rhythm that makes Jensen’s eyes want to roll back into his head. Jensen, for his part, pushes back in tiny increments, torn between impaling himself further on those wicked fingers and pushing his aching dick up against the hard and ungiving surface of the counter. In front of him the gunman’s other hand rests, the black matte barrel of the gun sitting at the ready on the counter. Jensen stares fixedly at the gun while he worked himself on those magical fingers.

“Next password,” the gunman prompts a few minutes later, a wicked gleam in his eyes when Jensen has to repeat himself twice to get the correct sequence out. 

Then they’re on the last account, and Jensen knows they are going to have to finish soon or they’ll be discovered, or _worse_ that Jensen will be left hard and wanting when the gunmen have what they need and leave. His legs are trembling with the effort of holding himself still enough so that they aren’t caught out by Ted and the gunman’s associate. 

Then the gunman twists his fingers, pressing the backs of them up against Jensen’s prostate and that’s it. Jensen bites his lip, _hard_ as his muscles clamp down almost painfully tight on the fingers driving him mad, his cock jammed hard up against the counter as he comes messily and silently in his khakis. 

“Good boy,” the gunman croons, slipping his fingers free of Jensen’s now-lax body and pulling his black leather glove back on. “Thanks for being so...accommodating.”

Now is the dangerous time, when Jensen knows the two gunmen can decide that, having what they came for, they can just kill Jensen and Ted to ensure there are no loose ends. For the first time, head unclouded by stupid, misplaced lust, Jensen feels a trickle of real fear. 

The gunman must catch the doubt on his face, because he leans close, grabbing Jensen by the short hair on the back of his head and pulling his head back, planting a fast, hard kiss on Jensen’s mouth that makes Ted squawk indignantly from his seat on the couch. Then with a jerk of his head to his associate, he’s gone, out the fire escape window. The other gunman follows quickly and quietly, until Jensen and Ted are left alone and unharmed, Jensen wincing slightly at the sticky mess of cooling come in his boxers and the lingering ache in his ass.

“Well, that was a nice quiet night at home,” he says to Ted, and Ted bursts into tears. Jensen just rolls his eyes and smiles.


End file.
